


Let Your Hair Down

by wellsmonroe (authorisasauthordoes)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authorisasauthordoes/pseuds/wellsmonroe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being reliably thick and wavy, Lexa’s hair had never been easy to tame. Especially when she was young. Most afternoons were spent trapping with her mother, making pelts with her father, or running free through the trees with her friends.</p><p>Braids, plaits, ties, those were for warriors. Fighters. Lexa much preferred the freedom of her wild, tangled strands. Thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Hair Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [assholemurphamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/assholemurphamy/gifts).



**✥ C O S T I A ✥**

Life was so much simpler with wild hair.

Being reliably thick and wavy, Lexa’s hair had never been easy to tame. Especially when she was young. Most afternoons were spent trapping with her mother, making pelts with her father, or running free through the trees with her friends.

Braids, plaits, ties, those were for warriors. Fighters. Lexa much preferred the freedom of her wild, tangled strands. Thank you very much.

She only began to take interest in the style of the soldiers when she began to take interest in Costia kom Trikru.

Costia and Lexa had been friends for most of their childhood, growing up in the same small Trikru village just south of Polis. Lexa’s family planted roots there because they enjoyed the view of the city, the large tower looming above them where the Commander plotted strategy and watched over the twelve nations. Costia’s family made home there because her mother was one of the chief war ambassadors, and being close to the city was nearly a requirement.

Despite having been surrounded by them her whole life, Costia never much liked the war braids. They just didn’t work right with her frizzy hair, and she didn’t want to cut her locks like Indra. She respected Indra greatly, but she did not respect that haircut.

Lexa, however, had the perfect hair for war braids.

“Will you let me see already?” Lexa grumbles, fidgeting in her spot on the forest floor. Costia merely laughs and continues to comb through her friend’s hair, mimicking the pattern of plaits she has seen many times, passing through her living quarters.

“Maybe if you didn’t wiggle so much, this wouldn’t take nearly as long.”

Lexa rolls her eyes but attempts to stay calm, settling with twiddling her thumbs rather than her whole body. She can’t help it, she’s impatient. She’s a restless spirit, constantly needing action and forward momentum. Although Costia’s love for calm occasionally irked her, ultimately it was Costia’s observant personality and ability to soothe her anxious nerves that drew Lexa towards her. Opposites attract, they used to say.

Lexa wholeheartedly believes it’s true.

“Okay… there.” Costia gives one last playful tug on a strand of Lexa’s hair before getting to her feet. She offers Lexa a hand to get up, and together the two of them amble down to the creek just down the hill. Costia steps back to let Lexa kneel in front of the water.

Looking at her reflection, with her hair all done up in the warrior’s way, something stirs inside Lexa. Although she’s never seriously considered it, seeing her poised as a member of the army, a fighter for Trikru and the sacred land of Polis gives her a weird sense of pride. A sense of belonging she didn’t know she was searching for.

“Well?” Costia says from behind her. “What do you think?”

Through her reflection in the water, Lexa watches herself break into a grin. “You’re a master of braids, Costia.”

“Please,” she scoffs. But there’s pride showing through her smile as well.

Lexa slowly stands, tearing her eyes away from the surface and turning back to face her friend. She reaches back and gently feels the plaits with her fingers, admiring the intricacy of them, amazed that they all have some special, unique meaning. “You’ll have to tell me all about each of these. They all represent strength, and courage, things like that. Don’t they?”

“Yeah, they do. But it’s not the most interesting lesson in the world.”

Costia could talk about dirt and Lexa would find it interesting. “I’m sure I can keep up.”

The ensuing smirk on Costia’s lips gives Lexa an entirely different sense of pride, but it fades far too quickly. “Lex, your nose.”

“Huh?” Lexa gently touches her nose, pulling her hand back to find a smear of black coating her fingertips. She whips around and squints into the water to see her reflection again, finding the new stream of blood slowly dripping down her face. “Ick. Nosebleed.”

Costia hands her a cloth from her satchel, which Lexa gratefully accepts. She holds it to her nose, waiting for the bleeding to stop. The two of them sit by the riverside while they wait, dipping their feet in the shallows of the water.

Softly, Costia takes hold of the cloth from Lexa, dabbing it before adjusting to a clean side. She gazes interestedly at the dark hue of the blood coloring the white cloth black. “Do you know if Anya has decided yet?”

She knows what she is referring to, of course. Whether or not Anya has decided to take her on as a second, to train her to take control of Trikru should Anya fall. Why she has an interest in her, Lexa has no clue. Well, she knows it has to do with the fact that her blood is the color it is, not traditionally red like her mother’s, and father’s, and Costia’s. But that seems like a silly way to decide who should be at the helm ready to take on an entire community.

“No,” Lexa answers. “Can you believe if she does, I’ll have to learn how to do all these braids myself?”

Costia cracks up. “That’ll take more training than the combat.”

 

  **✥ A N Y A ✥**  

Training with Anya had been some of the best moments of Lexa’s life.

Anya was stern, but in a way that Lexa appreciated. She didn’t hold back, didn’t beat around the bush, didn’t baby Lexa or give her free passes. It was a structure that Lexa appreciated and eventually relied upon. Routine, order, structure.

Even though she was often rigid, Anya was fun once training was through for the day. She fed Lexa’s creativity, built her strategic thinking through puzzles and games. If Lexa and Anya shared any singular trait, it was a fiercely competitive edge. That, Anya told her, would be what truly brought her success.

After all was said and done, Lexa also knew how soft Anya could be. Although she treated each warrior-in-training with the same no-nonsense demeanor, she would lighten up for the little ones. Smile a little more. Offer a little more guidance. Lexa absorbed this as much as she absorbed her combat and strategic lessons.

It took very little time to discover the knack Lexa had for holding a sword, and her eagerness at learning to wield two always put a smile on Anya’s face. Spears, knives, staffs, and clubs all cycled through Lexa’s grasp, but only the double swords felt perfectly balanced. She learned how to work them as if they were an extension of her arms, part of her body rather than an additional weight.

And they were what she used to slaughter the eight other novitiates at her conclave.

All her life, she had believed her family lived by Polis because they all loved the view of Polis as much as she did—the way the fire from the top of Polis tower hit the sunset on the best days, the numerous characters milling the streets and selling knick-knacks, the fire-roasted treats that were tasty even on the hottest days. But in reality, they had settled outside Polis due to her being a nightblood, knowing that one day she would be in the running for Commander. The one standing atop that tall tower, overlooking the city and the lands of the Grounders in every direction.

Rightfully so, as it was her nightblood that remained pumping through her veins at the end of the conclave.

“Tomorrow will be your ascension ceremony,” Anya informs her quietly, combing through her long, brown hair with a tool made specially in Polis. Her hair was even more tangled than usual, considering the wear and tear of battle and the young nightblood of her fellow Grounders soaked through it. It was on her clothes, her hands, her hair, her face—she was a painter’s palette of novitiate blood.

Even still, Anya does not complain as she does the work of combing through each strand, removing the blood and detangling the knots. As her leader, it’s Anya’s honor to clean her up and prepare her for the ascension ceremony.

Well, her previous leader. Tomorrow, Lexa will become leader of all the people of the Grounder nation.

She’s not even sure she can name all twelve clans, her mind feels so blank. The necessity of survival and the adrenaline of battle got her through the hardest part. But now, sitting on the hard stone floor of Anya’s Polis dwelling, she feels very cold. Her hands have yet to stop shaking. Her throat hurts.

“Lexa, you don’t speak,” Anya points out curiously, beginning the tedious process of braiding her hair. For the ascension ceremony, Anya is the first one to plait Lexa’s hair in the traditional style of the Commander. It is the last time Anya will do so, and possibly the last time they speak in private.

Lexa wants to speak, but nothing seems to come out. Or rather, she doesn’t trust herself to lest other emotion seep through. She simply shrugs.

Anya hums, thinking. “A warrior does not mourn those she’s lost until the battle is won,” Anya murmurs, a lesson she drilled into Lexa’s head over and over through the years. The mantra Lexa told herself over and over in her head while she ran her blade through her fellow novitiates again and again.

“I know,” Lexa whispers.

They sit in silence a while longer whilst Anya finishes the ceremonial braiding. Lexa continues to calm her nerves, closing her eyes and meditating. If she is focused on that, perhaps she will not lose control.

Once she is finished, Anya stands and gestures for Lexa to stand before her. The two study one another for a brief moment, before Anya speaks again.

“A warrior does not mourn those she’s lost until the battle is won.” Before Lexa can affirm this notion, Anya takes her shoulders and locks eyes with her. “This battle is won, Lexa. You may mourn.”

Her lip trembles. Then, all at once, tears slip from her eyes and the emotions spill forward all at once. She’s sobbing before she even realizes it’s happening, thinking of the eight young lives she just ended, and the insurmountable responsibility she is to take on because of it. Right now, Commander does not feel like an honor. Commander feels like a death sentence.

Anya steps away momentarily and grabs a washcloth from the small vanity, walking back over and handing it to her. Lexa accepts it, wiping her eyes and messing up the war paint and blood across her face into one shadowy smear.

“Regal,” Anya says with a light teasing tone, hoping to elicit even the smallest smile from Lexa’s face.

It’s somewhat of a success. Lexa smiles lightly and laughs into the cloth, although nothing feels particularly funny.

The firm hold of Anya’s grasp meets Lexa’s hand as she squeezes it for reassurance. “Tonight, you may mourn. Tomorrow, you move past it. You step up to grander things. The spirit of the Commander has chosen you, as I surmised she would. You embody all the best of the Grounders. It’s not surprise you will rise to lead us forward.”

Lexa sniffles, nodding her head. She shyly meets her mentor’s eyes. “You’ll take care of Trikru?”

“As I always have. Our people are in good hands. Both of ours.”

After a thoughtful pause, Lexa nods again. Takes a deep breath. Steels herself.

Anya smiles. “The composure of a leader. Reshop, Heda. Tomorrow, you become a legend.”

 

 ** **✥ T I T U S ✥****  

Titus brought structure in Lexa’s life to a whole new level.

He was stern like Anya, but his responsibilities left no room for softness. Being fleimkepa was busy, tough work, and Lexa knew it. He was rigid on all rules, all laws, all beliefs. He took his position very seriously, and expected Lexa to do the same.

He was cold, but still somehow, Lexa knew he cared. Perhaps it was in the meticulous way he made sure everything was exactly how she liked it, how he watched out for her best interest and advised her on every issue with the same amount of careful consideration regardless of the severity of the problem.

Since hearing of the death of her parents in a clash with some thieves from the dead zone, he stepped up to advise her with even more certainty. Her father he would never be, but he filled a hole in heart that had been barren since leaving the comforting forests of Trikru for the hustle and bustle of Polis.

While Lexa greatly appreciated Titus’s attention to detail and commitment to structure, there was one thing the two of them always clashed on. Tradition, and how much of it was necessary for the survival of the Grounder nations.

Despite all the beautiful art and ornate history behind the spirit of the Commander, Lexa had never much been into the whole religious aspect of it all. She was grateful to the spirit for choosing her, and guiding her. Although the ascension ceremony had been painful, and sometimes the back of her neck still ached in the strangest of times, she cherished the wisdom her predecessors passed onto her. She respected the most basic rituals and practices, and encouraged all the nations to abide by the teachings of the Commander.

Titus, along with all this, took dedication to another level. He disavowed any suggestions for change. He spent a lot of time in the lower levels of the tower where the sanctuaries and shrines were located, constantly referring to the teachings and legends. He prayed to the spirits for guidance, at the same time every night. If he was handed a rule, especially one handed down from on high, he would follow it with the utmost precision. And he would needle Lexa into doing the same, no matter how small her infractions may be.

Even down to the beads and plaits in her hair.

As Costia had predicted, braiding her own hair proved tricky for Lexa. It took years to learn how to do it just right, and even after that she would still make small mistakes. Mistakes that nobody but Titus would notice. It was a constant battle between them—adjust this braid here, remove this bead there and try again. For something that didn’t seem so important, Lexa felt like it was far too much fussing.

Once hearing word from the Ice Nation of Costia’s beheading, it was a miracle if Lexa even brushed her hair for a good month or so.

Although he wished to help get her back into working shape, for the sake of her health and the health of the nations, Titus’s approach to helping her heal was inconsiderate at best. He only pushed her harder, nitpicked her to excess, raised his expectations to an unreachable height. When she finally blew up at him about it, he knew precisely what to say.

“Don’t you see, what emotions have done?” he shouts, waving his arms in the air for emphasis. “Affection for this Trikru girl has rendered you incapable of action. Your parents were the same way. And that is precisely what your enemies will rely on to use against you. Heda, do you not see?”

“What am I supposed to do, Titus?” Lexa bites back, tossing her hair over her shoulder and trying to keep the tears out of her eyes. “Shut myself off? Reject all humanity? Feel nothing?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Titus scolds. “Certainly, you cannot feel nothing. But you can learn from your mistakes. You see now, what feelings can do. Remember these lessons, the way you remember the others. Connections are ransom. Feelings are distraction. Love is weakness.”

Lexa blinks at him, processing his words. “Love is weakness.”

“Yes. You understand? Surely you should not cut yourself off from the world, Heda. Never would I suggest such a fate. But you must find the balance between attachment and tactic. Know when to stop before you lose sight of the reasonable, logical path. The spirit will help guide you, I’m sure.”

Surprisingly, the spirit had offered her nothing on how to deal with a pain this great. When it came to emotions, the spirit seemed relatively hesitant to speak.

“Please, Heda. See reason.”

After a long moment, and a deep breath, Lexa nods. “I do. Thank you, Titus, for your advisement.”

He nods eagerly. “It’s my duty, Heda. I take it seriously.”

“I know you do.”

Titus gives her one of his rare tight smiles. The ones that make her feel his affection towards her, despite his preaching that love is weakness. But his eyes still glitter with anxiety.

“Now, please, Heda. Fix your braids.”

 

  **✥ A D E N ✥**

Even though she attempted to keep her affection to a minimum after Costia’s death, her fondness towards Aden wasn’t something she felt she could control.

A resident of Polis, Aden was one of the few nightbloods who was born in raised in the shadow of the Commander and the Polis tower his entire life. He was quick-witted, agile, and walked with an air of confidence that Lexa would have been intimidated by in her youth, but now impressed her. She felt her interest in him was probably what Anya felt when she was considering her choice of seconds—something instinctual, partly based on logic, mostly based on gut.

In any case, Lexa took a liking to Aden and made a point of finding time to train him. Most people considered this act of preference some sort of calling from the spirit, a natural inclination towards who would rise to be the next Commander of the new class of novitiates. Lexa wasn’t sure she saw it that way, but who was she to say for certain?

The truth of the matter was, she liked all her mentees, the new nightblood novitiates. They were attentive, kind-hearted, and full of the same restless drive that she was. It was her own selfish desire to get to know each of them that spurred her to insist their families move into Polis and attend a class with her twice a week. Not only could she pass on the wisdom they would need to one day be Commander, but she could also save them the culture shock she endured when she was thrust into the conclave.

All of her teachings to them, however, she felt weren’t quite her own. She taught them the traditional teachings of the spirit, the history of the Grounders, and any other notes Titus threw in as necessary. She taught them about patience, strong will, and never went too easy on any of them, to instill in them the strengths that Anya gave to her. One day, she knew too, it would be her spirit guiding the new Commander in whatever decisions lay ahead.

The only reason she didn’t let herself fully believe it would be Aden this soon was because she wasn’t sure she could stomach the thought of the other young novitiates already dead. Or her death, for that matter.

Still, she trained with Aden as often as she could find time with plausible excuses.

“Heda,” Aden asks as the two of them sit down for a break, taking a long sip of water from the jug at their feet. “If I become the next Commander, will I have to wear my hair like yours?”

Lexa laughs, wiping the sweat from her brow. “First, Aden, you would need to grow some hair.”

“It’s already longer than it was last summer. Did you know some of the Ice Nation never cut their hair?”

“I don’t believe that’s quite true.”

“That’s what Maxwell told me. He said the spirit told him so.”

Lexa smiles as Aden goes on and on about the other novitiates and their weekly gossip. It’s bittersweet, the fact that all of them have grown to be such close friends due to her insistence over bringing them all together. In some ways, it inspires her to survive longer, to keep them from facing the conclave.

She cannot bring herself to imagine Aden, caked in the nightblood of his friends the way she was. Not while she’s around.

“If you ask me, you can wear your hair however you like,” Lexa tells him, taking some water as well.

“But yours is so specific,” Aden points out. “Titus would never let me do whatever with my hair.”

“Just as I won’t live forever, neither will Titus,” she chuckles. “Chances are, you will have your very own fleimkepa. You two can run Polis however you wish.”

Aden’s eyes sparkle, alight at the possibilities of the future. The excitement is contagious, and feeds that fire of forward-seeking momentum that Lexa is always living with. “What do you hope to accomplish while you are Heda?”

Lexa shrugs. “I’m not sure.” She glances over her shoulder, making sure no one else is within earshot, before leaning forward and gesturing him to do so as well. He does so eagerly. “Between you and me, I’d love to make some changes around here.”

“Really? Like what?”

She hums, looking around. “Mix up the display of goodies in the marketplace. Invite more members of each nation to live here, and send more Polis officials out to live in the actual lands. Give us all a better perspective of one another.” She glances back at Aden, smiling at the attentive look on his face. “Oh, and lighten up on this stupid hairstyle,” Lexa laughs.

“You really dislike it?”

Lexa pauses, thinking. She doesn’t hate it, not truly—it does keep it out of the way, and it looks elegant enough for official ceremonies. She just wishes it didn’t have to be so precise, so exact, with no room for change. More of a symbol of expression, less of a rule to be followed.

“When you are Heda, Aden, you may wear your hair however you like. Say the spirit told you so.”

 

**✥ C L A R K E ✥**

The longer she had been Heda, the more tightly wound Lexa had become in every aspect. Her muscles were tighter, her smiles tighter, her hair more tightly wrapped in each individual braid. Every tough decision, every warrior lost, every hard sleep of nightmares wound the knots further. Despite having love her tangled hair in her youth, she was thankful for the neatness of her hair now that was just one less tangled thing in her life.

That is, until Clarke kom Skaikru fell from the stars.

Something about Clarke unraveled that carefully twisted structure inside Lexa. Clarke reminded Lexa of all the things she wanted to be as Commander, all the positive change she wanted to create. From blood must have blood to, well, perhaps not. Clarke challenged her like Aden, tested her like Titus, respected her like Anya, and warmed her like Costia. She didn’t ask Lexa to be Heda, to be a leader, to be someone else—she only expected Lexa to be herself.

Lexa had always believed that opposites attract, and the reckless fire in Clarke’s eyes that set her on edge also drew her in. It was more true than ever before.

Especially in times of crisis, it was inadvisable for people outside Heda’s right-hand committee to see her with her hair down. It was a symbol of respect, but something about Clarke made Lexa want to let her hair down around her. The first time she did, it was on her own accord, after her risky fight with Roan of the Ice Nation that she knew Clarke had disapproved of.

Still, Clarke treated her with gentleness, the way Anya always had after the fierceness of battle had subsided. She tended to her wounds, spoke to her like an equal rather than a deity. She shared a look of softness with her in a way that made Lexa more nervous than ever before, overwhelmed with the curiosity of whether or not Clarke may find the same solace in her that she found so intriguing.

The next time Clarke caught her without the plait, it was Clarke’s decision.

Lexa hadn’t expected Clarke to actually agree to stay in Polis. Of course not. Clarke, like Lexa, belonged to her people—it was something they respected about one another. If Okteivia kom Skaikru said they needed her there, then they did, there was no doubt about that. And Clarke would go to help. There was no doubt about that either.

But Lexa hadn’t expected Clarke to come and say goodbye. She hadn’t expected the sincerity, or the affection, affection that Lexa had let herself become starved of in the name of “love is weakness.” She hadn’t expected to lay there with Clarke while the sun rose in the sky, knowing that Clarke had to leave but pretending that she could stay a little longer.

Hearing Clarke tell her that they could talk about what they want, or nothing at all. Clarke was all freedom, free will, fire, and that what was really drew Lexa towards her. Clarke, who could let her hair down but still make the right decisions. To Lexa, that was a trait worthy of the Commander.

Clarke gives her a quick kiss when they break apart for breath, running her fingers through her hair. “Should have known your hair would be just as gorgeous when it’s all wild and free.” Lexa smiles bashfully, resting her head against Clarke’s shoulder as she continues to comb it with her fingers. “You gonna teach me how to braid it?”

“If you’d like to know the truth, I can hardly braid it myself,” Lexa admits sheepishly. Clarke laughs at this, spurring Lexa into giddy giggles too.

“Well, maybe I can teach you how we braid ours,” Clarke suggests. “When I come back.”

“ _When_ we meet again,” Lexa agrees. To Lexa, it feels like a promise she will spend her life attempting to keep. Giving into love, not weakness. Because Clarke is that wonderful sensation—that sensation of the simple life in Trikru and letting her wild hair down and _feeling_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta Kass, and to user poeticaesthetic for the suggestion!


End file.
